Prince and The Revolution
– Purple Rain
Purple Rain is an exorcism soaked in sex, faith, grief, and guitar solos that cut like sermons. Prince had always danced on the fault line between funk and rock, but here, he splits the earth. With The Revolution locked in like a street gang in lace, he churns out something feral yet precise. There’s gospel fire in his falsetto, and every note feels like it’s chasing salvation while grinding up against sin.
Best of…
This is Prince at his most focused, and yet totally untamed. He sheds genre like it’s an itchy shirt: one track is a fluorescent rock scorcher, the next a synth-drenched ballad bleeding heartbreak. But what glues it all together is the nerve—the sheer don’t-give-a-damn bravado that turns lines about doves crying into profound truths. Prince knew exactly what he was doing, and made it look like divine chaos. He didn’t follow trends. He set them on fire and danced through the smoke.
And let’s talk about that guitar. Prince doesn’t just play it—he weaponizes it. These solos aren’t flashy for the sake of it. They’re screams. They’re prayers. They’re the sounds of a man possessed by every record he ever loved and every rule he refused to follow. Purple Rain isn’t an album you listen to. It’s an album you survive.
Choice Tracks
Let’s Go Crazy
It opens with a sermon and ends in a shred-storm. In between? Pure electric hysteria. A party song for the apocalypse that dares you to find joy while the ceiling collapses.
When Doves Cry
No bass, no safety net, and nothing to hide behind. Prince strips the song bare and leaves only emotion, breath, and anguish. It’s pop minimalism as psychic meltdown.
Darling Nikki
Filthy, funny, and far smarter than the pearl-clutchers gave it credit for. Prince goes full provocateur and dares America to blush, then dance about it.
The Beautiful Ones
Unhinged vulnerability dressed in satin and shrieks. One minute it’s tender, the next it’s clawing at the walls. Prince sings like he’s on the verge of collapse—and pulls you with him.
Purple Rain
Nine minutes of holy devastation. A slow-burn anthem that feels like it was written for the end of the world. The guitar solo isn’t played—it weeps, it begs, it ascends. If this isn’t divine, nothing is.